


Of Scarred Bitemarks and Unwise Deals

by cannibaljoke



Series: A Witch Second, but a Witch Always [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Allusions to cannibalism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Drowning, Gen, Hannibal is a god, M has a tiny part dont worry he doesnt die or anything, M/M, Magic, Mythology References, Q is a witch, Witchcraft, allusions to sex, i like M too much to get rid of him, mention of Vesper Lynd, no actual sex scene, or at least mentions and allusions to alcoholism, sry about that, the hannigram is also barely there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-18 16:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11878053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibaljoke/pseuds/cannibaljoke
Summary: "Death is not something that is used to letting people go, especially not multiple times (Q wonders if this is what the afterlife looks like for Bond as well, or if Bond has a ticket straight to Valhalla or some other more merry part of afterlife). However, death will have to settle for letting Q go just this once."Or, in other words, a mission goes a bit wrong (as per usual), and this ball of relationship yarn starts to untangle and then tangle again. Or something.





	1. Of Water and Common Denominators

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

Q knows that witches are rare in this part of the world. Witches are rare anywhere, where the screams of innocents being burned at stakes are still audible. Q has ever only met two witches, both of whom were absolutely horrified by how Q uses magic, because there is no rhyme or reason to how or why Q does things the way he does. 

The magic Q uses is not exactly what most witches would call conventional. Q would claim it is because he is self-taught and has never had any interest in finding a proper teacher, but the truth is that once Q realised that there are things that normal witches consider too dangerous and powerful to use, a little power-hungry part of Q lit up with a bright flame. 

Q knows that he will never be the strongest witch in existence, Q has no wish to be that, at least not anymore. As the quartermaster, Q has learnt many things, but the main thing is that having no help or backup to fall back on when shit hits the fan is a terrible idea. 

He applies the same concept to his magic, he gets allies, because a good ally is much more useful than any number of spells. Or, in other words, no matter how powerful Q is, he is still mortal and a simple bullet to his brain or heart will stop him (as will an innumerable number of other things, because humans are, after all, rather fragile). The only way to avoid peeking behind the veil of death too soon, for a witch, is to find a friend on the other side (and Q has done just that with his hungry god, although perhaps friends is not quite what they are). 

A friend, however, is just half the battle, because knowing a deity (or a creature or even a demon) is one thing, but getting that deity to actually be helpful requires a bit more finessing, which is why Q has struck a deal with his hungry god (a deal that most other people, witches or not, would probably call incredibly unwise, but at least, Q thinks, he is not doing something stupid like trying to appeal to Hannibal Lecter’s humanity). 

Friends (or allies or acquaintances or whatever else word would fit them better) and deals become especially useful when missions go wrong, even more so when Q happens to be on said mission with a field agent or two.

Long story (which is not too long, because most stories about missions that involve James Bond follow the same basic plot) short, Q drowns and Bond gets to watch before having to rush away to safety. 

In the water, fully submerged, Q briefly thinks of Vesper Lynd and how her red sundress must have looked underwater, but then decides that the only common denominator between them is their hair colour (and the rumour that Vesper Lynd might have had a few magical talents), because Q has no plans on taking a permanent vacation in the land of the dead. 

Q watches Bond leave and calmly breathes out, bubbles of air floating away from his face. Drowning, he decides, is an awfully slow and painful way to go. It would probably even be a scary way to go for someone who has no _Get Out of Jail Free_ card when it comes to death (although, Q supposes, his card is actually more like something along the lines of _Get Out of Jail for an Organ or Two_ card). 

When Q knows he is just barely alive, he feels cold and everything around him feels a bit unsteady, he can see the shadows in the room darken and the water slowly starts turning black and inky. Q relaxes and lets go.

Everything goes dark and Q finds himself in the familiar black sea, floating and just barely existing in this eternal darkness. It feels just as ancient and just as ever-lasting as it did last time, with a touch more familiarity. For some reason, it feels like the sea of darkness recognises Q and is much less keen to let him go this time, but Q supposes that is just how death works. 

Death is not something that is used to letting people go, especially not multiple times (Q wonders if this is what the afterlife looks like for Bond as well, or if Bond has a ticket straight to Valhalla or some other more merry part of afterlife). However, death will have to settle for letting Q go just this once.

Q opens his eyes to the ceiling of a hotel room (he knows, because the room he and Bond shared had a similar ceiling) and a pain in his lungs. He looks to his side and, yes, he is definitely alive, because his imagination may be almost limitless, but Q is not capable of imagining a thoroughly displeased Hannibal Lecter sitting against the headboard, looking at him.

“Do you want me to apologise?” Q asks, voice rough, and coughs immediately afterwards. 

Hannibal says nothing and helps Q sit up before handing him a glass of water. 

Q drinks the water and then continues: “Because it wasn’t my fault. I mean, I could have probably avoided being locked in there, but it wasn’t my fault I died.” 

If anything, Hannibal looks even more displeased as he places the glass back onto the small table next to the bed, and Q has no idea what to say or do. 

“Hannibal,” Q says and does not get any further, because he is pressed down onto the mattress with a clearly angry god looking down at him. 

Q ends up with Hannibal’s hand in his hair, tugging his head back, and sharp teeth against the skin of his neck and shoulders (the realisation that he is in his underwear and that Hannibal must have undressed him while he was dead hits him at this moment, Q does not know what to do with this realisation). 

“You’re mine,” Hannibal growls and if Q did not know better, he would try to get away now.

But Q does know better, so he stays still and lets Hannibal sink his teeth into the junction between Q’s neck and shoulder. Q makes a pained sound when Hannibal’s teeth sink deeper than he had expected them to, and Q can feel the darkness in air taste of anger and rage and something that almost feels like betrayal. 

“Oh,” Q whispers, he knows why Hannibal is so upset and why he felt the need to put another mark on Q. “You think I wanted to back out of our deal.” 

The only sign that Hannibal may not be as angry as before is the sensation of him mouthing almost gently at what is undoubtedly a bleeding bitemark in Q’s shoulder (and another future scar for Q to hide from co-workers) and the grip on Q’s hair loosening.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Q says, running one hand up Hannibal’s shoulder and neck, into his hair. “I promised you’d get to devour me, I don’t intend to go back on that.” 

Q feels Hannibal smile against his skin and lets out a sigh of relief. 

Hours later, a few bruises richer and with a bandage on his new bitemark, Q decides that he probably should no let Bond assume he is dead for too long (even though this seems like appropriate payback for all the times Bond has decided to take impromptu vacations). That and there is still is still that mark, the man who tried to (rather successfully) kill Q, to get rid of, which Q is all the more keen to do now.

Naturally, Q takes Hannibal along, because the only thing more satisfying than allowing a vengeful 00-agent near someone who tried to kill him, is letting a vengeful god near someone who tried to kill him. And providing Hannibal with a new piece of meat seems like an apt exchange, Q’s life for some meat.

This all leads to Q going to the party where he and Bond were supposed to go together (as a couple, because that is the simplest cover story) on Hannibal Lecter’s arm. Which, admittedly, is a bit more fun than going to a fancy and outlandish party filled with international criminals and people who smell subtly of sulphur with James Bond, mostly because Bond is convinced that Q cannot handle alcohol, while one of the first things Hannibal does is hand Q a glass of wine. 

“And here he comes,” Q comments, watching Bond stroll into the room like he could own not just the room, but the entire building. He does not seem to notice Q, but that is probably mostly due to all the spells Q cast on himself to be as unnoticeable and unmemorable as possible (until he speaks; the spell only works on people Q does not speak to). 

Hannibal looks like he does not think much of Bond and Q cannot blame him, to Hannibal all of Bond’s talents and tricks must seem simple and so boring. To Hannibal mortals in general must seem simple and boring (and yet he does not look at Q the same way he looks at the rest of the general population, like they would be much more useful on his dinner table). 

When their mark, the man who left Q to die, walks past, Q tugs on the sleeve of Hannibal’s suit and whispers (carefully making it look like flirting for anyone who might look at them and see past Q’s spells): “Him.” 

Hannibal’s gaze follows the mark for a moment and Q feels something shift in the air, like something playful has turned deadly. But then Hannibal smiles charmingly, a hand on Q’s hip, completing their illusion of flirting. 

“And what do you expect me to do with him?” Hannibal asks. 

Q thinks about being specific, thinks about asking for a love letter wrapped in murder or a piece of art made of a disgusting man, he decides against it though (aesthetically pleasing murders are more Will Graham’s thing to share with Hannibal) and shrugs. “Rip him apart, eat him, just bleed him dry, I don’t care.” 

“You just want him dead.” 

Hannibal looks infinitely pleased and Q smiles bashfully, even bites his bottom lip before making a request: “Make it hurt. That’s all I want.” 

A chaste kiss to Q’s cheek later, Hannibal is gone, and Q decides to focus on finding Bond.

And find Bond he does, predictably at the bar, nursing a drink that is definitely not his first or second or third.

“Cut him off, please,” Q says, when Bond attempts to order another refill. 

The bartender nods and Q thinks she smells a bit of brimstone and he is not sure that if he looked, he would not find a tail attached to her. (Alas, this is not his current problem or even any of his business, so he does not look or ask or cast a spell to find out.)

Bond looks suspicious, like he is not quite sure if Q is real or an elaborate hallucination. 

“Nice to see you too, James,” Q quips and sits on the stool next to the one Bond is occupying. 

“You died,” Bond replies and his words slur a little (and Q is so glad that he has Hannibal to help him tie up loose ends, because Bond would have been absolutely no help).

“I am very much alive,” Q reassures Bond and turns towards Bond. “Would you like to check?” 

“What, with a round of life-affirming sex?” 

“If that’s what it takes to get you to stop drowning your sorrows in alcohol,” is Q’s response, bitter honesty and familiar dry humour mixed together, it gets an almost-smile out of Bond and Q counts it as a victory.

No round of life-affirming sex follows and Q is not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed. Q drags Bond back to their shared hotel room though and Bond is a bit more touchy than usual (as if he is scared that Q will fade into nothingness if Bond lets go of him). 

If Q lets Bond spend the following night clinging to him, then they will both dutifully leave that out of their mission reports. 

And if Q gets a text from an unknown number, containing only a picture of what must be the remains of their mark, surrounded by blood and gore (good, Q thinks as he looks at the man’s emptied chest cavity and tearful dead eyes, it looks like it hurt a lot), then he accidentally does not mention it to anyone. He does text back a simple “thank you” though, because there is no need to be rude. 

When he is back in his own bed in England, Q smiles to himself and thinks that friends in high (or low, in this case, because the underworld is called that for a reason) places are important in both espionage and witchcraft.

Another thing Q thinks is that perhaps they were not so far off during the witch trials, perhaps witches do not drown after all. (Or, perhaps, Q is just special and has made a deal with someone arguably worse than the Devil himself).


	2. Of Suits and Bloodstained Collars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is a falter in Bond’s stroll and a twitch in his face (Q must remember to tell him that he does have a tell after all, once this is all over, Q thinks), when he is about half-way across the room, and Q makes a breathy noise before whispering: “He knows.”"
> 
> Or another mission, another mess. Arguably less death though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

The first time James Bond meets Hannibal Lecter is on a mission, because of course it is, because of course Q can only live so long until his two worlds come crashing into each other (thankfully not literally, because Q knows who would lose that fight and he does not have the time to force himself to like another field agent). It is a relatively routine mission, one that involves collecting information and, maybe, should the situation call for it, a few dead international criminals.

In hindsight, Q perhaps should not have been surprised to find Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham just standing and sipping wine in the crowd, when he walked down the large (overly lavish, overly golden, overly everything) staircase, watching Bond socialise and look the part of a rich businessman. (In hindsight, Q would have been able to feel their presence, had he been looking for it, alas he was not and he curses himself for it.) But Q was surprised, in fact he almost missed a step when he noticed them. The reason their presence at the party should not have surprised Q is that the party is filled with the kind of people that Hannibal is around nowadays, people who appreciate the finer things in life, but also have a few (hundred, when it comes to some of them) skeletons hanging in their closets, so they are very unlikely to sell Hannibal and Will out to anyone. 

“You clean up nicely,” Q says in lieu of an actual greeting, not-so-subtly giving Will a onceover. 

Will smiles, his seemingly uncontrollable stubble under control, without his glasses, and wearing a very nice dark blue suit (Q briefly laments the fact that he is on a mission and not here to try and see if he can weasel his way into Will’s and Hannibal’s bed, because he is so very tempted). Not that Hannibal looks worse, Q thinks, but Hannibal always has a lovely suit and always looks like he is both the most dangerous and most educated person in the room. 

“As do you,” Hannibal says and glances where Q knows Bond is sweet-talking the man he is supposed to kill tonight.

“So, you brought your pet agent,” Will quips, having followed Hannibal’s gaze. 

Q smiles and shrugs. “It’s sort of a necessity. What with being here on business and all that.” 

“I’m assuming the man in that offensive green suit is the business you’re here for?” Hannibal looks like the suit had personally offended him as he asked that. (It is an offensive suit, Q agrees wholeheartedly, and to think, the suit is the least offensive part of that man. Q doubts anyone will shed a tear over the vile man in the equally vile green suit.) 

Q and Will look at each other with matching amused smiles, Hannibal's distaste for all this aesthetically unpleasing knows no bounds (and is a seemingly infinite source of entertainment for Q and Will).

“He is,” Q replies, snatching a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray and looking towards Bond (the agent seems to also be keeping an eye on Q, which Q cannot fault him for, because the last time they were together on a mission, Q did drown). 

A few glasses of wine and a few quips about Hannibal later, Q is leaning against Will and giggling quietly, his shoulders shaking and a hand over his mouth to avoid laughing loudly. Will is grinning and has an arm around Q’s waist, so Q will not do something embarrassing like trip over his own feet. Hannibal looks, despite the quips and teasing from both Q and Will, content (of course the dragon is happy, Q catches himself thinking, all of his hoard is within his sight). 

“I think you’ve had enough,” Will says when Q tries to reach for another glass of wine, and laces their fingers together under the pretence of making sure Q does not get another glass of wine. 

Q makes a displeased noise and whines: “But Will…” 

This makes Will and Hannibal chuckle, and Q feels a hand rubbing his shoulder in consolation (he cannot tell if it is Hannibal’s hand or Will’s, but Q doubts it even matters, because the hand is warm and deceptively gentle and feels nice). 

And then Q feels a hand (definitely Hannibal’s this time, both of Will’s hands are now on Q’s waist) against his cheek, beckoning him to look up. He moves his head just as Hannibal speaks: “Your agent is back.” 

Q finds Bond quickly, despite his intoxicated state (he has overindulged on wine, he has not suddenly lost all his abilities and skills), and clearly Bond has also found him from across the huge room.

Fleetingly, Q wonders how this looks to Bond, because at work Q shies away from overly physically affectionate people (except Moneypenny, but Q is sure that everyone knows that Eve is a special case, the exception that proves the rule). And, yet, now he is letting two people touch him with no complaints or nasty comments. 

Q takes note of the small stain of blood on the collar of Bond’s shirt and the fact that the vile man in the green suit is nowhere to be seen (at least Q does not have to worry about having to ask Hannibal to kill someone for him again; and isn’t it just a tiny bit disturbing that Q has no problem admitting that what he did was asking Hannibal Lecter to kill someone for him, isn’t it even more disturbing that Hannibal really did kill someone for him).

There is a falter in Bond’s stroll and a twitch in his face (Q must remember to tell him that he does have a tell after all, once this is all over, Q thinks), when he is about half-way across the room, and Q makes a breathy noise before whispering: “He knows.” 

Will tenses, the arms around Q pulling him closer and Q knows Will is looking at Hannibal to gauge his reaction. Hannibal does not seem to react much at all, he just hums thoughtfully and Q feels fingers in the hair on the nape of his neck. 

“He won’t do anything,” Hannibal says eventually, clearly having thoroughly catalogued everything about Bond (Q should be scared, but frankly, he is too fascinated and curious to find out what Hannibal sees when he looks at Bond to be frightened). Almost as an afterthought, Hannibal adds: “Besides, I’m hardly the worst person in the room.” 

Q laughs quietly and Will chuckles, relaxing again. (Although, the truth of the matter is that Q knows that Hannibal is not the worst person in the room. At least, not the most disgusting and vile person in the room, compared to some of these people playing at being cultured and refined connoisseurs, Hannibal almost seems like a good person. And if Hannibal Lecter seems like a good person, then there is something seriously wrong with the rest of the people in the room, Q thinks.)

“I see you’ve made some new friends,” is what Bond says when he has made it across the room. 

Q shrugs, makes a vague noise, and does not quite look at Bond, he is not sure he wants to know what Bond thinks is going on (because despite all the jokes Q has made about Bond being the brawn and Q being the brain, Bond is actually rather smart). 

“What Q was trying to say was that there is not much new about this,” Hannibal says, hand still on the back of Q’s neck and fingers rubbing nicely against Q’s head.   
Q glances at Bond and Hannibal, and Bond is clearly trying to figure Hannibal out (Q wonders is Bond sees past Hannibal’s person suit, and if he does, how far beneath does he see). Thankfully there is no weird posturing, mostly because Hannibal is not prone to that (he probably finds it rude, Q thinks), because Bond on the other hand is very, very prone to that.

“I can speak for myself, thanks,” Q grumbles and the fingers in his hair tug slightly, and Hannibal’s smile gets a sharp edge to it, but his eyes are warm and amused, so Q is not overly worried about whatever boundary he just pushed. 

“Judging by the way your words just slurred,” Will murmurs, just loudly enough that Q is sure that Hannibal and Bond also hear it, “I’d argue that you can’t.” 

Q scoffs and glares at Will, which is probably not very intimidating, because Will is more or less holding Q up and Will just seems to find Q’s antics thoroughly amusing. When glaring proves to clearly be ineffective, Q just huffs and mumbles: “Oh, fuck you.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Q sees Hannibal and Will share a look that promises so many things (and, oh dear, Q might actually be getting in over his head this time). 

“Another time, perhaps. You’re drunk right now, Q,” Hannibal says and the shock in Bond’s eyes would be visible to anyone, because Q is supposed to have a different name on this mission. 

Q turns, Will’s hands returning to his waist when he almost loses balance, and Q gets a good look at Bond (he seems almost curious, but also worried and like he is tempted to whisk Q away, as if Q was a damsel in distress). 

“You’re probably right,” Q eventually admits. “I’d probably better go to bed before I do something embarrassing like throwing up on someone’s shoes.”

Hannibal chuckles (and Q has a brief flashback to the warm streets of Palermo and Hannibal’s hands on him). Then Hannibal is saying something about leaving Q in Bond’s capable hands, and after that Q feels him press a kiss to Q’s cheek. Will does nothing as obviously affectionate as a kiss, but his hand does linger on Q’s lower back as he leaves. 

Somehow, Q has no recollection of how exactly, Bond gets him to the hotel room they share (Q thinks he was probably manhandled, if not carried, because he knows how uncooperative and unbalanced he gets when he is drunk). 

By the time Bond forces Q to sit on their bed, Q is mostly back to being fully functional, but Q is not about to tell Bond that. Especially not when Bond is dutifully helping Q out of his shoes and kneeling before him (Q feels like this probably says something about how he has spent most of his life worshipping gods and now he wants to be worshipped himself). 

“Were those who I think they were?” Bond asks eventually, one hand on Q’s ankle and the other on Q’s knee. 

Q considers lying, considers the consequences should Bond know he is lying, and Q shrugs. “Probably. Depends on who you think they were.” 

“Q,” Bond says and his tone is almost threatening, but Q just scoffs and lies down onto the bed without deigning to answer. 

Bond seems to realise that the conversation is over and that Q is not going to move unless told to. This realisation is followed by Bond having to undress Q, and having to prod and poke at Q until Bond somehow gets him under the covers. 

Waking up is a tedious process, mostly because Q’s head hurts and Bond is right there, sitting up, back against the elaborate headboard, and reading a file, so Q has to duck under the covers to draw a sigil onto his forehead (and a cool wave passes over his brain, the headache being almost entirely washed away). 

“You killed the mark last night, right?” Q asks, reaching for his glasses while still being mostly tangled in the covers, because he is refusing to leave this warm cocoon, unless it is absolutely necessary. 

“While you were busy flirting with serial killers, yes,” Bond replies and he sounds bitter with a bit of jealousy mixed in.

“They were hardly the worst people in the room,” Q says, almost quoting Hannibal from earlier, but not quite. 

The file Bond was reading is placed away, somewhere out of Q’s line of sight, and Bond turns his attention to Q (and Q remembers why he does not like this, Bond sees too much, he probably even knows how to tell if Q is lying). 

Bond is clearly upset, but Q cannot tell if Bond is upset because Q let a pair of cannibalistic serial killers touch him, or because Bond sees this as some form of betrayal. And Q’s head hurting too much to try and go about this in an indirect way, so he just asks. He asks why Bond is upset by this. 

“Why am I upset?” Bond makes it sound like the question is stupid and Q should know better. “I’m upset because I remember what you looked like when you came back from Baltimore.” 

“Oh,” is Q’s eloquent response and perhaps he should have seen that as the obvious answer, because he was a bit of a mess when he came back from Baltimore and he did take a long vacation (to go see Hannibal and Will, mind you, but no one knows that, Bond does not know that). And then Q adds, as if in some semblance of an explanation: “This isn’t Baltimore though.” 

“And that means someone like Hannibal Lecter is less likely to kill you?” 

Q sighs and says: “If Hannibal Lecter was going to kill me, I’d have died in Baltimore.” 

What Q leaves out is that he probably did die in Baltimore, albeit not for a long time and not permanently, but he did die. What Q leaves out is that Hannibal Lecter will eventually kill him, just not now and probably not until Hannibal gets tired of playing whatever game he is playing with Q (because it is a game, everything is a game for Hannibal and he always wins). Q also leaves out the part where the reason Hannibal will eventually kill him is that Q asked him to. Frankly, Q leaves out most of the things that should actually matter. 

Bond looks like he has more to say on the matter, and Q is sure that he does and that all of Bond’s points are good and valid, but he does not want to deal with this, not with a headache. 

So, Q lifts a hand and covers Bond’s mouth and says: “We’re going to talk about this later. Nod if you agree.” 

Bond nods.

And disaster is temporarily avoided, although Q has a feeling that he will actually have to talk to Bond, not just wait until Bond forgets about this. Q is not looking forward to that conversation, but there is still time before it, so Q just curls up under the covers again and decides to sleep away his headache, and to deal with the world once again after he is fully rested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like you all probably know, I love feedback and feedback feeds my soul. 
> 
> So, if you would be so kind as to leave feedback, I would be very grateful. 
> 
> (Also, feel free to come and talk to me about this AU on Tumblr. My URL is huxtheginger.)


	3. Of Vague Honesty and Distrust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Q has just climbed up from under the bridge (where, contrary to what most people think, do not live trolls, but in London, there are strange marketplaces for all things magical) and is brushing the dirt off his trouser legs, when he notices Bond standing there." 
> 
> Or a rather roundabout way of discussing whether trust is actually a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

Q gets to successfully avoid talking to Bond about what happened on that mission for a few weeks, almost a month in fact, but all good things come to an end. Q’s bliss comes to an end on a rainy afternoon on a bridge.

Q has just climbed up from under the bridge (where, contrary to what most people think, do not live trolls, but in London, there are strange marketplaces for all things magical) and is brushing the dirt off his trouser legs, when he notices Bond standing there.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Q says, adjusting his glasses and briefly glancing down to make sure he got all the dirt (he did).

Bond nods and takes in Q’s appearance. (Q knows he must look strange, especially after climbing out from under a bridge with a bag in either hand. Q also knows that he does not have a believable cover story for this. Fuck, Q thinks and hopes that Bond will not ask too many questions.)

When Q turns to leave and Bond follows him, Q sighs and hands Bond one of the bags (the heavier one, because he can) and says: “Here, make yourself useful.” 

They make it to Q’s small flat and Q considers telling Bond to leave, because he has various magical paraphernalia lying around and there are sigils and diagrams stuck to almost every inch of every wall in Q’s home. In the end though, Q lets Bond in and tells him to put the bag on the kitchen table (that also doubles as Q’s work table, because it is a small two room flat and Q has no use for two tables). Bond seems to dismiss all the strange objects and papers as just another one of Q’s quirks, which is good, and Q feels infinitely grateful for being a rather strange person.

Following Q’s instructions, Bond does put the bag on the table and then sits at the table, watching Q put the things away (Q very carefully does not take anything out of their wrappings, because explaining what all of these things are and why they are useful is not something Q wants to do). 

“I’m assuming you want to talk,” Q says, pouring tea into two mugs.

Bond looks at him, Q places one of the mugs in front of him on the table and then proceeds to take a seat across from Bond. (And Q can tell that this is not an agent talking to his quartermaster, there is a coldness and some suspicion swirling in the blue, blue sea of Bond’s eyes, this is an interrogation. Or at least an attempt of an interrogation, Q thinks, because Q, too, has been trained to withstand being interrogated.) 

“What’s your relationship with Hannibal Lecter?” 

Q licks his lips and conceals a smile, because what a dull beginning to an interrogation, what an easy question to give a vague answer to. Just because of that, Q replies with: “There is no relationship. Are you here out of personal or professional curiosity?” 

“Does it matter?”

“It matters if you’re wearing a wire.” 

Bond’s expression changes and he leans closer. “Would your answers change if I was wearing a wire?”

“Tell me if you’re wearing one and I might tell you.” 

Q glares at Bond and Bond glares back. After about a minute of that, Bond stands, takes his suit jacket off and lets Q pat him down. Bond is not wearing a wire (personal curiosity then, Q thinks). 

“Can I expect honest answers now?” Bond asks, sitting back down. 

Q shrugs. “Depends on what you’ll ask, to be honest.” 

Bond makes a face and Q thinks that if this was an actual interrogation and if Q was not Bond’s quartermaster, Bond would have probably broken one of Q’s fingers for that. 

“What’s your relationship with Hannibal Lecter?” Bond repeats his first question. 

Q sighs, sips his tea, and then answers: “He cut out my kidney and left me to bleed out in Baltimore.” 

“But that’s not all, is it?”

“No. But the rest of it is none of your business,” Q says, looking a lot calmer than Bond (who looks like he is almost prepared to pounce).

“Q,” Bond warns and Q is reminded of that night at the hotel room when he was drunk. 

Q speaks before Bond can continue, almost cutting Bond off: “It does not relate to my work in any way. It is none of your, or anyone else’s, business.” 

“He knows who you are though, that is enough to be dangerous,” Bond points out. 

“And I know most of his secrets, 007. I’d say the playing field is pretty even.” 

Bond breathes out through his nose harshly, and drinks his tea. Q already knows what he is going to want to say, so Q changes tact and reaches out to touch Bond’s hand (delicate, cold fingers against Bond’s warmer, wider ones; a subtle manipulation tactic, one that Q uses more often than he should).

“007-… James, I can handle this,” Q says and he sees something in Bond’s eyes soften (hook, line, and sinker, ladies and gentlemen and variations thereupon). “He won’t hurt me, at least as long as he finds me interesting.” 

Bond’s eyebrows draw together and he looks worried, he looks like there is a tragedy waiting to happen and he can already see it unfolding. (And Q and Bond are a tragedy, aren’t they? A tragedy of unspoken words and tension between them. A tragedy that must feel all the more painful for Bond, because Q has deities and magic to distract himself, and because Q has no problem with being a tragedy. Q has always known that the last stop on this train of life is death and everyone needs to exit there, and Q has accepted that, but Q has also accepted that living in wait and fear of that last stop is useless. Especially when there is fun to be had and wine to be drunk.)

“James, I’ll be fine. Nothing has to change,” and Q knows that saying this and giving hope is cruel, but what else is there to tragic lives than hope (and what else can the lives of spies be than tragic, there are no happy endings in espionage). 

Bond squeezes Q’s hand and Q knows that he will not tell anyone about Q’s affair (because what else could it be called, a dalliance sounds too casual, a fling just sounds pedestrian) with Hannibal Lecter. If Q considered life a sequence of winning and losing, then this would be a victory, because he just wrapped a 00-agent around his finger. (And Q tries not to think of how easy it was or how much he enjoyed it, because he does not need a permanent manipulative streak. Q also tries not to think of this must be Hannibal rubbing off on him, because Q is not this manipulative by nature.) 

And then, Q is letting go of Bond’s hand and smiling slightly as he asks: “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother little old me?” 

Bond chuckles and the air feels lighter, not like there are a thousand secrets floating around like specks of dust. 

“If you’re old, what does that make me?” Bond retorts.

“Well,” Q says slowly, smile turning mischievous (and they are back to being an agent and a quartermaster in a slightly antagonistic relationship), “I’m not sure you want to know what I think of that.” 

Bond rolls his eyes and grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like calling Q a little shit into his mug as he drinks his tea. 

After that, Bond stays a bit longer than is strictly necessary and maybe lets his touch linger on Q longer than is strictly professional. 

When Bond has left, Q looks at the two empty mugs on his table, thinks of the way his hand felt in Bond’s, and comes to the realisation that Bond might just care. Which should not be bad or awful or any of the things it is, but both Q and Bond work in espionage and Q is already walking the line of what is and is not considered betrayal (and it is so tempting to just cross that line, to jump off that ledge, and see where he lands, if he lands). 

It is about a week later that Q sees Bond again. Q comes home from work, tired and with a bit of a headache, to find Bond (who is supposed to be in Cuba, mind you, hunting down some criminal) sitting in his kitchen, looking a bit roughed up and probably injured, judging by the way he stiffly does not move one arm. 

“Go to medical, Bond,” Q says, taking his shoes off and putting his bag in his bedroom.

When Q returns, Bond is still sitting there, and Q decides that, fine, he will play nursemaid just this once. Q fetches his first aid kit and tells Bond to lose the jacket and shirt and whatever else might be necessary (Q will not have Bond dying in his flat, because the man is too stubborn to go to medical). 

“Are you going to say anything?” Q asks when he is bandaging what is obviously a stab wound in Bond’s arm, trying not to stare too long at Bond’s chest (which is a bit difficult, considering it is right there and Bond is not wearing a shirt anymore). 

Bond says nothing and Q moves so he is kneeling in front of Bond, hands on Bond’s knees. “You have to talk to me so I can help you, 007.” 

This time Bond mutters something about the mission going wrong and people dying.

Q sighs and touches Bond’s cheek gently. Q has no idea how to console anyone, let alone 00-agents, but Q does know that Bond looks like he needs to rest. 

And thus, Bond ends up staying the night in Q’s bed, because he looks to be in no shape to go anywhere else on his own. He ends up taking a shower and borrowing one of Q’s larger t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. And Q ends up having to sacrifice half of his bed, because in his tiny flat, there is nowhere else for Bond to sleep. 

Falling asleep is not the awkward or uncomfortable part (it is the worrying part though, because Bond falls asleep so fast and Q is not sure if Bond knows that he should not trust Q this much, that while Q does care, his priorities and morals are all askew), waking up is not awkward or uncomfortable either, because Q has woken up next to Bond before on missions. In fact, sharing a bed with Bond is surprisingly comfortable, it feels like something Q could do again and again (and Q pointedly does not think about this for longer, lest he do something stupid like get too attached).

Bond looks a bit less awful in the morning and the first thing he does after drinking tea is sew up the stab wound. Q does offer to call medical, but in the end, he just sits by and watches Bond press a needle through his skin again and again and again. Then, Q bandages the wound again and sighs deeply, because Bond’s dislike for medical is honestly ridiculous (and the lengths he goes to, to avoid medical are even more so). 

Bond leaves sometime in the afternoon with the promise of going to see M as soon as he can, and letting medical see his wound, if something feels off. Q enjoys the rest of his day off and cannot shake the feeling that this might just be the quiet before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedback, alright? 
> 
> If feedback was a food, it would be my favourite food. If feedback was a book, it would be my favourite book (and, honestly, it is one of my favourite things to read already anyway, so it's not far off). 
> 
> Point is, I'd love to know what you think of this, what you like, what you don't like, what you'd like to see more of, what you'd like to see less of. 
> 
> Or, just ask me questions about the AU (although, even I might not be able to answer those).


	4. Of Rabbit Holes and Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A few days pass just like that, Q brings packed lunches to work, because they just keep appearing in his fridge, and Q knows that he should be worried about how Hannibal is getting into his flat, but there is free and delicious food (priorities, Q thinks, he ought to rethink and reorganise them)."
> 
> Or it is less of a storm and more like a flood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

Q feels it in the air, an omen (a crow croaking, a banshee’s scream, the words of a crone, an image made of tealeaves). To most other witches it would be just that, an omen that could mean just about anything, but Q knows. Q knows the particular flavour of Hannibal’s darkness and he feels it filling the streets of London silently (like a flood on a quiet night, everything filling with dark water, everything and everyone drowning without making a single sound). 

So, when a small snippet of a strangely decorated corpse shows up in the news, Q is not surprised. And, to Q, it is not as unimportant as it seems to be to everyone else. Q knows better than to think it will end at one dead man with flowers growing out of his chest. Musk roses and deep pink roses were the flowers used, which Q only found out by accessing the crime scene photos using not entirely legal methods (musk roses for capricious beauty or to call someone charming, and deep pink roses to express appreciation or gratitude, Q thinks, looking at the musk rose growing in a pot next to his window). 

When Q gets home that night, the night after a strangely decorated corpse has shown up in London, exhausted and so very prepared to just not function for a while, his flat is cloaked in a darkness like he has never seen before. Q puts his bag down, takes his shoes off, and puts his coat in the closet. 

“Honey, I’m home,” Q says, smiling wryly, and the candles placed around his flat light up. 

The first thing Q notices is the bottle of wine and three glasses on his kitchen table. The next two things are Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham sitting at Q’s kitchen table.

“Oh,” Q mutters, the fearful tension disappearing from his body and the adrenaline that had kept him running for the past two days finally fading away (and is it not the most curious thing that Q feels perfectly safe and content around two people fully capable of killing him). “You’re both here.” 

“And you’re exhausted,” Will points out when Q slides onto the third chair at the table.

“We can’t all have rich husbands and travel the world, can we?” Q snipes and Will chuckles and Hannibal has a vaguely amused look on his face (the kind that means that were it anyone else but Q making that remark, they would be on the menu, but because it is Q, Hannibal is allowed to find it a bit funny). 

Q rubs at his eyes and someone takes his glasses off (probably Will, Q thinks, because he can hear Hannibal opening the bottle and pouring wine and then the sounds of cooking, Q will have to try to remember to tell Hannibal not to leave any pieces of people in his fridge). 

“Give those back,” Q complains and glares at a somewhat out of focus Will Graham. 

Will puts Q’s glasses on the table, leans closer (where Q can see him clearly), and slides his hands into Q’s hair.

“Hush,” Will says when Q makes a noise that would have grown into another complaint, and rubs his fingers against Q’s scalp pleasantly. 

Q sighs happily and closes his eyes. There is a vague feeling of magic against his head and Q’s headache (that had nested somewhere behind his eyes and at the back of his head) starts to disappear. This feels different than the spells Q uses on his headaches, this feels less like a wave of icy water numbing the pain and more like gentle touches of wind slowly brushing away the ache. 

“That felt so nice,” Q almost moans when the pain has disappeared entirely and Will’s hands are cupping his face. There is a kiss pressed to Q’s forehead and Q turns his head to press a kiss to Will’s palm. 

“Open your eyes before you fall asleep,” Will says and he sounds very amused. 

So, Q opens his eyes and stifles a yawn, because there is a reason to be awake right now, there is wine and apparently there is also food (Q assumes Hannibal and Will brought most of the ingredients, because the only edible things in Q’s kitchen are packets and packets of instant noodles) and good company and all that. 

Around an hour and an amazing dinner (that was probably people, but Q tries not to think of that too much) later, Q is swaying in the middle of the room, arms around Will’s neck and Will’s hands on Q’s hips. Jazz is pouring out from the portable speaker attached to Q’s phone and Will is humming along to a tune that Q cannot quite recognise. Q thinks he can hear Hannibal doing something in the kitchen (and Q briefly wonders what the odds are that Hannibal is going to tamper with some of Q’s spell jars and ointments and things, but Q knows that he has no way to stop Hannibal anyway; at least Q does not have to worry about the food being poisoned). 

“You’re distracted,” Will murmurs, a hand sliding up Q’s back. 

“A bit, maybe,” Q agrees, thinking about what a mess this will when MI6 inevitably gets involved in trying to catch the Murder Husbands. 

And maybe Will makes sure Q does not have the opportunity to be distracted again. Maybe there is more swaying and dancing that night. Maybe Q gets to sit back, sip his wine and watch Hannibal and Will dance together (above all else, Q thinks, they are so in love; Q is not sure what true love is supposed to look like, but if Q had to describe true love, Hannibal and Will swaying in his little flat in candlelight is what he would describe). 

And maybe Q ends up sitting on the floor with Will and listening to Will complain about Hannibal’s need to use coasters (to which Hannibal, sitting on Q’s sole armchair, grumbles something about damaging expensive furniture, and Q snorts in an undignified manner). And maybe Q complains about all the awful eyesores of houses he has seen while supervising and directing field agents on missions. 

“I’d say something about rich white people, but,” Will says to that and gestures to Hannibal. 

Q laughs and almost chokes on a sip of wine.

“I’m sure something about pigs and pearls would be more appropriate,” Hannibal says and rubs Q’s back as he coughs. 

And maybe they move over to Q’s bed at some point (although, the “maybe” is hardly necessary here, because Q does wake up with the wonderful realisation that his bed does, in fact, fit three people). 

When Q wakes, it is to his phone ringing, and he just barely does not step on Will as he more or less jumps out of bed, already thinking of reasons to excuse being late for work (because he clearly is late, the sun is up and Q is still at home).

“Good morning, sir,” Q says, answering M’s call and mentally bracing for a berating. 

“Afternoon, Q,” M says, voice as dry as a desert at midday. “Is there are reason why you’re not at work?”

“I slept in, sir,” Q goes for honesty, because the less he lies, the less jumbled his story will become (something he learned by trial and error).

While M talks about responsibility and about how if Q is exhausted or otherwise unfit to come to work, he could just say so beforehand, Q makes tea (one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other opening cupboards, taking out a can of tea, a mug, opening and closing the faucet, pressing the button on the electric kettle). M, eventually, sighs and says he understands that Q must be tired, but he also says, in a slightly politer way, that Q better get his ass to work soon or there will be problems.

“Ugh,” Q says when the call has ended and rubs his face. 

And thus, Q takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and by the time he is changing clothes in the bedroom, Hannibal is already in the kitchen. 

And thus, Q goes to work with a packed lunch (that he hopes so, so much no one will ask about) and a bruise on his neck that just peeks out from the collar of his shirt. 

A few days pass just like that, Q brings packed lunches to work, because they just keep appearing in his fridge, and Q knows that he should be worried about how Hannibal is getting into his flat, but there is free and delicious food (priorities, Q thinks, he ought to rethink and reorganise them). 

MI6 gets involved around the third murder (and Q is beginning to regret telling Hannibal he loves roses, because this is getting a bit out of hand), a woman with a gown made of roses growing out of her body, a gradient of pink and deep pink and burgundy, and a single pink rosebud in her hand. (It is not the dress of pink that stands for admiration and grace, or the burgundy that stands for unconscious beauty that makes Q nervous. It is the little pink bud that stands for new love that makes Q nervous, because he realises that this might just be flirting. This might not be Q throwing double-entendres at Hannibal with a smirk and seeing if Hannibal bites, literally or figuratively, this might be actual fully intentional flirting and Q has no experience with this.) 

As soon as everyone is fully aware that Hannibal Lecter is in London and all the people who have been living under a rock (because Hannibal Lecter has been a hot topic at MI6 ever since Q was borrowed by the FBI, so it is fairly difficult to simultaneously work at MI6 and know nothing of Hannibal Lecter) have been informed of just how dangerous and unpredictable Hannibal Lecter is, Bond looks straight at Q. 

After this, Q approaches Bond in Q Branch, when Bond is there fiddling with some gadgets that are definitely not something Bond should be touching.  
“I didn’t know he was in town, if that’s what you want to know,” Q whispers, leaning close to Bond to pluck the gadgets out of his hands. 

Bond’s expression is unreadable and Q is fairly certain that Bond does not believe him (Q wonders if he is now a traitor in Bond’s eyes, Q wonders if it even matters).  
It is a few hours later that Q is sitting at his desk, watching programs scan through CCTV feeds, looking for Hannibal and Will (thus far nothing, which is not surprising, considering there are countless spells and sigils for this, and Q may have mentioned most of them to Will), eating his lunch from a Tupperware container that looks like nothing Q would ever own. 

“You never used bring lunch to work,” Bond says, eying the container Q is holding suspiciously. 

Q rolls his eyes and replies: “Coincidences do happen.” 

Except that is not true, Q thinks, because there are no coincidences when Hannibal Lecter is involved. In fact, there seldom are coincidences when Q is involved (because Hannibal may be excellent at pulling strings and Machiavellianism might as well be Hannibal’s middle name, but Q did not become the quartermaster just because he is good with computers and writes code incredibly quickly, Q can pull strings too, Q can weave webs of lies as well). So, with both Hannibal and Q involved, coincidences are impossible (and there are not many things that Q dares to call completely impossible). 

And as these things go, Hannibal shows up on a CCTV feed (without Will, which is curious, but Q is fairly sure that Will has dogs to feed at their villa somewhere in South America) and M sends Bond and a few other agents after him. And Q sighs and knows that there is no way that any of the agents will catch Hannibal, there is no way all of them will come back alive either (and Q tries not to think of this as sending people he knows to death, but that is what it is, Q is sacrificing actual living people to a god and this is terrifying). 

Hannibal leads the agents on a merry chase and Q makes sure the agents are able to keep up (Q briefly thinks of the white rabbit and Alice, and thinks of how this time the white rabbit is a man-eating god and the Alices have guns, and he almost laughs).

In the end, the agents catch up.

And it is a trap, because of course it is, and Q almost stops breathing as he listens to his agents dying (screams and yells and slick noises and squelches and cracks and Q is grateful that he has no way to see what is happening). Q sends backup and sends medical help, but he knows that most of the agents will not make it out alive. 

In the end, backup shows up to find more dead agents than alive ones and Q swallows (and quiets his internal struggle about whose side he is on) and says he lost sight of Hannibal (Q lies, Q lies and lets a cannibalistic serial killer get away, Q lies and lets a killer get away and does not feel guilty). 

Numbly, Q stares at the screen of his computer and realises that this is worse than a slightly skewed moral compass. (He thinks of rosebuds and of Hannibal’s hand in his hair, he thinks of how this might have been flirtation from the beginning, he thinks of how maybe he has been Hannibal’s since that night so long ago in Palermo. Q thinks of decaying pink rosebuds and of how, perhaps, his life will be a cautionary tale for other witches after all.)

News of Bond being alive but barely reach Q soon, and a few hours (and a few detailed reports to M) later, Q goes down to medical to see Bond. 

Q looks at Bond in that white, white room and thinks of how Bond trusts Q, and of how Q is supposed to keep his agents safe and how he did not keep anyone safe this time. Eventually, Q sighs deeply and decides that since he is in too deep to climb out, he might as well just see where the current takes him (the current of this dark, dark sea in a world of eternal night where the sea might as well be blood, because blood and dark waters both look black in the moonlight). 

Distantly, over the steady beeps of the machines that Bond is attached to, Q remembers that human sacrifices are a certain way to tie oneself to a god, and Q realises that if the dead agents count as sacrifices, then Hannibal is indebted to Q. 

Q bites his lip and tries not to smile, because there should be nothing amusing about any of this and there is not, except for one thing.

Hannibal Lecter owes Q a favour, a rather large favour, and Q is not about to let that go to waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must have mentioned this a thousand times already (and you might be getting a bit tired of it), but I adore feedback! 
> 
> Getting feedback makes me so happy, honestly. Even if it's just, like, one word. 
> 
> P.S. Q complains about houses, because I recently discovered mcmansionhell.com, and the thought of making Hannibal look at those houses or him suffering through listening to descriptions of these houses cracks me up.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please, tell me what you think of this! 
> 
> I love feedback!


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